Where the Frogs Are

I often feel too crowded out,
And sometimes I have tried
To find a place to get away,
And now I have espied
The place the water meets the shore
Where froggies hop and hide.

If I could make myself real small
And dark and slimy-wet,
Then maybe I could join them there,
And if I did, I bet
That all these people bugging me,
I’d very soon forget.

If I could join the happy frogs
Who sit upon the rocks,
I’d flap my flippin’ flippered feet
And throw away my socks,
And whisper to the Gurgler
Who hides beneath the docks.

I’d warm myself upon the shore,
Upon my rocky bed;
The sun and breeze would play upon
My wet and shiny head,
And chase the water down my back
And leave me dry instead.

And when my skin was hot and dry
And baking on the stone,
The lapping lake would sing to me,
And softly call me home
To cool, caressing waters,
Where I’m happy and alone.

Amid the rippling wavelets,
You might hear a little plop,
And from the corner of your eye,
Might see me as I hop
And splash into the water
With a little belly flop.

And I’ll be where it’s dark and cool,
With mud between my toes,
Where cozy stones will cradle me,
Where minnows drift and doze:
A special, secret froggy place
Where no one ever goes.

The other little, bratty kids
Who rant and rave and rail,
Who try to catch and put me
In their nasty little pails,
May try and try to trap me,
But will always, always fail.

No, they will never catch me,
And no more will I cry,
Cause I am full of froggy tricks,
And now I have espied,
The place the water meets the shore,
And froggies hop and hide.